There’s an emptiness that resides
In these walls.
They’re choking from built up
Clutter and old telephone bills.
If the walls could speak they’d say:
“Get the fuck out of this house”.
But still you lie on that twin bed,
In the back room, with your alarm clock
Set 13 minutes fast.
Sometimes I wake up in the room
Above their old bed,
And I want to pound the cold tile floor and scream:
“Move on you old fool”.
Your heart still aches,
Even though you tell yourself
There’s no need to pack up and leave.
Even though a good night’s sleep
Is hard to come by.
The tequila on the shelf begs
The dust that coats the house
Is thick and dark.
It could use a swift cleaning,
You think to yourself.
But it’s not my dust.